


Go Frag Yourself

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock is unexpectedly eloquent, Dirty Talk, Face-Sitting, I'm Going to Hell, Masochism, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sadism, Self-cest, Siphoning, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift has an eventful near-death experience, involving an angry frag.</p><p>Gift for Deadlockedup and Cosmicpowersketch on Tumblr, who give me such wonderful bunnies to play with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Frag Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> The Noncon warning is because Dream!Ratchet doesn't have a say about participation and Deadlock isn't given a choice about how Drift shuts him up no matter how much he enjoys it.  
> Suggested Listening: Crazy in Love (Eminem), Buck Dich (Rammstein), Sehnsucht (Rammstein), Flesh (Simon Curtis)

Drift couldn’t remember the accident.

It all bled together in his processors, a scrambled mess of noise and light and pressure and pain.

So much pain.

By the time they got him to Medbay he’d screamed himself hoarse. Skids carried him while a frantic soot-streaked Rodimus sprinted alongside, trying to hold Drift’s helm together with his bare hands.

The next thing he knew was blissful peace, talented hands dampening the neural connection between brain module and sensornet even before the Medbay ceiling swam into focus overhead.

“Hang on, kid.” Ratchet’s worried voice preceded his face into Drift’s field of view, everything splintered into crazy fragments. “You’re going to be ok. Just hang in there.”

Drift tried to cycle his optics to bring Ratchet into proper focus but the mechanisms whirred and ground together, jammed by whatever had fractured the lenses of his optics.

_I know I’m going to be ok, Ratch. You’re here._

He tried to speak but only static came out. Ratchets face creased in a frown and one of his new hands moved to Drift’s cheek, touching briefly before flying back to the frantic work going on just out of sight.

He could feel a pull from somewhere in his chest. It felt like something was calling him, pulling at the edges of his awareness.

Answering the call, Drift turned his attention inward.

Towards his Spark.

Noise erupted somewhere behind him. An alarm and the sound of Ratchet saying something that didn’t include a single foul word. It was dim, distant.

Not important.

Somehow Drift was standing, whole and not in pieces. His optics worked perfectly when he brought them online and nothing hurt. Joy filled him and Drift turned, trying to find Ratchet to ask where he’d misplaced his famous vocabulary.

Ratchet was there, but he wasn’t looking at Drift. His attention was fixed on a mech Drift hadn’t seen in years.

 _Deadlock_.

The Decepticon was smiling up at the medic, one clawed hand splayed in the exact centre of Ratchets glass chestplate.

“What the frag are you doing here?” Drift demanded, battle protocols sending him into a defensive crouch.

Deadlock tipped his head back and smirked at Drift, not taking his main focus off the motionless medic in front of him.

“And where is here, _Drift?_ ” Deadlock said his designation like an insult, Rodion gutter-drawl and all.

The question threw him. Drift looked around; quick darting flickers of his optics that always came back to where the Decepticon had Ratchets Spark within easy reach. He didn’t trust Deadlock that close to Ratchet, not with the things he’d thought about doing to that beautiful, sturdy red-and-white frame.

It took a worryingly long time for the world to coalesce around them.

They were in Medbay, of course. Where else would they be?

It was the last place Drift remembered before waking up. Medbay. With alarms going off, Ratchet’s worried face hovering over him and Roddy freaking out somewhere in the background.

There were no alarms now. It was quiet and still, two Autobots and a Decepticon the only living beings in the room. Ratchet must have fixed everyone up and kicked Roddy out before bringing Drift online.

Had he?

He must have. There was nobody else there and the lights were dimmed to the night-shift standby setting.

Suddenly realising that Deadlock was still smirking at him Drift flared his armour and let his engine growl a warning.

“We’re in Medbay, _obviously_. The real question is; _what the frag are you doing here?!_ ” Drift flexed his hands, wondering if he could get to the swords at his hips before Deadlock ripped out Ratchet’s Spark.

“I’ve always been here,” Deadlock purred, turning to face Drift head-on.

In a strange twist of physics the Deception was suddenly right before Drift, optics flaring as he leaned forward and gave the crouching Autobot a conspiratorial grin.

“I’ve been here all along,” A sharp finger poked the centre of Drift’s chestplates, the Decepticon whispered into Drift’s audial. “Right in here, _inside you_.”

Another accident of physics and Deadlock was standing by Ratchet again, halfway across the Medbay. Out of reach and within easy striking range of the medic. Drift shook his helm, trying to work out what was going on. The harder he tried to figure it out the harder it became to think, a dangerous proposition with Ratchet in danger.  Drift stopped trying to make sense of the situation and returned his focus to Deadlock.

The Deception was just standing there, watching him with arms folded casually. He seemed to have been waiting for Drift to pay attention again. Unnaturally patient.

_What game is he playing?_

Ratchet remained still, seated on the end of a medberth. He hadn’t moved or spoken at all. Deadlock had probably threatened or hacked him before Drift arrived.

Where had he been? Why had he left Ratchet alone with the dangerous mech?

Deadlock’s smirk deepened when Drift’s optics locked onto him again, licking his lips and turning to face Ratchet.

“Because I’ve been watching you I _know_ what you want to do to this frame right here,” Deadlock stepped closer to Ratchet, running clawed hands up the medics white thighs. His voice took on a hint of mockery as he baited Drift. “I know all the dreams that wake you in the middle of the night _desperate_ for a frag. Every fantasy you have while jerking off, telling yourself that _this time_ will be the last time you jerk off to them.”

The Decepticon’s voice was low, a growling purr that twisted from Drift’s audials to his interface array and pinned him to the spot.

“We both know why your frame is always just a _little_ too hot when he’s patching you up. And why you refuse painkillers afterwards.” Deadlock continued to speak. Drift let the words wash over him, optics following the path of dangerous hands roaming over the frame of one of the important mechs in his life. “We _both_ know what you do when you go back to your habsuite afterwards. What you imagine him doing to you, what you imagine doing to _him_.”

Deadlock lingered over the last two sentences, emphasising the last word and dragging a single claw down the inside of Ratchet’s thigh; detaching a long, curling ribbon of white paint.

The medic finally reacted then, shivering and gasping in what was unmistakably a combination of both pain and pleasure. Drift drank in the sight greedily, torn between the desire to watch and the urge to snatch Ratchet away from the Decepticon. Ratchet pressed into the touch, moaning softly. Two sets of blue optics following the clawed digit as it carved a matching line into the other thigh, Deadlock letting the paint curls fall carelessly to the floor when he was done.

“See? I think you both quite enjoyed that. I know _I_ did.” Deadlock observed smugly.

Suddenly realising that his mouth was hanging open, Drift closed it with a snap. Drift shook his head violently. He glared angrily at Deadlock, daring the mech to contradict him.

He could hear Ratchet’s primary cooling fans humming away on a low setting, dealing with the heat produced by his conflicting reactions to the damage. The Decepticon smirked, reaching up to grab Ratchet’s helm and pulling the medic into a kiss. Ratchet responded immediately, parting his lips and moaning into Deadlock’s mouth.

Drift echoed the moan, devouring the sight with his optics while the Decepticon plundered Ratchet’s mouth. It was aggressive, Ratchet not allowing Deadlock to dominate the kiss even though clawed hands flexed threateningly against his helm. Drift could see their glossa tangling together when Deadlock drew back, holding Ratchet firmly in place so the medic couldn’t chase him.

A quick glance to make sure Drift was watching then the Decepticon licked his lips and drove back in, nibbling along Ratchet’s lower lip before biting hard enough to slice two little vertical cuts into the soft dermal metal with his sharp denta.

Drift’s own choked cry was drowned by ambulance’s open-mouthed moan and revving engine. The swordsmech stared; absolutely transfixed by the sensual way Ratchet licked his own energon from his lips, blue optics burning.

“Deadlock, that’s enough.” Drift’s voice was unsteady and hoarse.

Deadlock ignored him, pulling Ratchet down so he could lap at the energon flowing down the medic’s chin. Ratchet’s optics slid closed and he moaned again, pressing forward into the contact.

Two speedster engines roared.

“Did you hear me? I said that’s _enough_.” Drift snapped, tearing his optics away from the sight of Ratchet ardently cleaning his own energon from Deadlocks lips.

“ _He_ doesn’t seem to think so.” Deadlock murmured against Ratchets mouth. He caressed the medic’s cheek with one sharp claw, creasing the delicate metal and threatening to cut through.

That did it.

Drift threw himself at the Decepticon while he was distracted by the way Ratchet shivered under the caress and whimpered against his energon-stained lips.

He tackled the Deadlock around the waist, tearing him away from his victim. Deadlock laughed as they clattered to the floor. The pair of speedsters tumbled across the floor, fetching up against the wall with a crash of armour.

The Autobot was snarling, energon pounding in his lines as he dodged punches and drove his knee up into the exposed vents of Deadlock’s solar plexus. Deadlock wheezed at the blow, jerking his head forward in a headbutt Drift didn’t have space to dodge. Helm ringing from the impact but Drift held on, feeling the first tingles of rage becoming a familiar lust.

The heat in Drift’s frame only grew as the fight dragged on, his spike swelling and valve dampening the inside of his interface covers. Each time he landed a blow near Deadlock’s crotchplate he could feel the heat radiating from it. The temperature in the Medbay rose steadily as their frames dumped heat into the room.

Deadlock managed to drag cheeky claws over Drift’s pelvic armour, scoring the sensitive metal. Two engines revved and Drift snarled, biting down hard on Deadlock’s audial flare. His sharp denta punctured the thin metal easily and Deadlock howled, lashing out with sharp claws to rake four parallel lines into a white chestplate.

With his greater experience in hand-to-hand combat it was only inevitable that Drift would come out on top. Snarling his victory he crouched over Deadlock, pinning the thrashing Decepticon to the deck and smirking down at him. Drift’s array was burning, his valve throbbed and his spike pressed insistently against the inside of his armour.

Deadlock spat a few choice curses as he futilely tried to escape.

“Oh _really_ now?” Drift gave the Decepticon a feral grin. “Was that an invitation?”

“Like you have the bearings.” Deadlock spat, kneeing Drift sharply in the small of his back.

Armour dented and Drift grunted, accepting the pain and the flash of hunger it sent through him. He retaliated with an open-handed slap across Deadlock’s face, using the return swing to deliver a hard backhanded blow to the other cheek.

Deadlock writhed beneath him, arching against his hold and Drift slapped him again, one-two across the face, engine roaring. Grabbing the white finials that matched his own, Drift squeezed until Deadlock went obediently limp beneath him, snarling a litany of truly foul words.

Their armour parted at the same time, Drift heard Deadlock’s spike pressurising behind him while his own bumped against Deadlock’s chest armour, his bared valve spilling lubricant onto the trapped mech.

“I’ve got just the thing to shut you up,” Drift said, taking a firm grip on Deadlock’s finials as he slid up the Decepticon’s battered frame. “Here, do something _useful_ with that filthy mouth of yours.”

Deadlock continued to swear as Drift raised himself up and positioned his dripping valve over his faceplates. The Autobot dropped down, revelling in the movement of lips against his swollen folds and the vibrations Deadlock’s angry shouts sent through his array.

“Ooooh, that’s much better.” Drift moaned, flexing his hands warningly on Deadlock’s helm crests when he closed his mouth and refused to speak. “Don’t stop talking or I’ll rip these off.”

Something that sounded like an extremely muffled ‘you’re too fragging soft’ made Deadlock’s lips move in delicious ways against Drift’s folds. He rocked his hips, deliberately sliding his valve over Deadlock’s lower face to grease the entire area with pinkish lubricant.

The Decepticon struggled half-heartedly, engine roaring as he shouted obscenities into Drift’s crotch. The Swordsmech followed Deadlock’s twisting and thrashing effortlessly, forcing the mech to continue mouthing his valve. When it became too violent Drift tightened his grip enough to leave scallop-shaped fingermarks in Deadlock’s finials, earning an enraged scream that sent fire through his circuits.

A few threatening squeezes over the fresh dents soon settled Deadlock and Drift began to grind his valve against the face beneath him in earnest, crying out whenever he managed to mash his sensory nub against the Decepticon’s nose. After a few minutes he felt one of the Decepticon’s arms shift away from the cage of Drift’s lower legs and towards his own interfacing equipment.

Drift straightened up and looked down at the red optics glaring up at him beneath where Drift’s erect spike bobbed in time with the movement of his hips. He forced his nub up against Deadlock’s nose just to see the reaction.

Deadlock made a very pretty sight like this. Battered and beaten, valve lubricant covering his face from the cheekstruts down and glaring up at Drift with lust and rage. He could feel rhythmic movement in Deadlock’s shoulders, the Decepticon masturbating while Drift rode his face.

“Doesn’t this make you wish you still had a valve?” Drift asked, grinning down at Deadlock.

The inevitable ‘frag no’ felt _wonderful_.

“This feels –to use an Earth word- _fucking_ _amazing_.” Drift rolled his hips in slow circles over Deadlock’s lower face. “I bet you’d love to do this; pin me and frag my face until I _drown_ in your lubricant.”

The renewed spate of muffled swearing was immediately refuted by the roar of Deadlock’s engine shifting gear and an extremely familiar grunt from deep in the Decepticon’s vocaliser.

“Oh no you don’t!” Drift barked.

He reversed his position over Deadlock’s face before the lust-fogged Decepticon could take advantage of his momentary freedom. Drift grabbed Deadlock’s wrists and hauled his dark hands away from the twitching spike. It shone with lubrication, red biolights pulsing in a fast pattern showing just how close he was to overloading. Drift crushed Deadlock’s hands to the purple mark on his chest, maintaining control over the pinned mech so he couldn’t escape.

So far as Deadlock was concerned, that appeared to be the last straw.

He started thrashing wildly beneath Drift, outraged shouts carrying through Drift’s entire array. Obscene squishing noises filled the Medbay and Drift didn’t bother to muffle his cries of enjoyment, knowing they only increased Deadlock’s anger and by extension the violence of his reaction.

Drift could feel his own overload rapidly approaching.

Each wild jerk of Deadlock’s frame beneath him shifted the pressure on his valve array, increasing the pleasure and charge chasing itself around his frame. Deadlock’s glossa flicked out, deliberately missing the places that would bring Drift the most pleasure. Seeking revenge, Drift brought one of Deadlock’s hands up to his mouth and bit down savagely on the bared lines at his wrist. He whined as the taste of processed energon spread across his glossa.

That was all it took for ecstasy to overtake his frame and he writhed, grinding his valve down on Deadlock’s face as his spike discharged fluids in a silver arc that splattered all over the Deceptibrand on Deadlock’s chest.

Drift went limp in the grip of his overload, valve cycling rhythmically on nothing, ejecting spurts of lubricant into Deadlock’s mouth. He kept Deadlock’s wrist pressed to his own mouthplates, glossa forming a seal over the wounded lines until autorepair closed the slashes from his denta.

His vents opened to their maximum, systems struggling to cool his frame. Drift stared blankly at the silver-splattered Decepticon symbol on Deadlock’s chest.

When he pulled his lips from Deadlock’s wrist, the Decepticon struck.

Drift hit the floor face-first as Deadlock surged upright. He barely had time to get his hands under himself before the other mech grabbed him and slammed him face-down onto an empty medberth. The edge of the medberth dented Drift’s abdominal armour, sending delicious aftershocks through his frame. Deadlock shoved him roughly, moving his frame forward so Drift’s torso was resting on the table and his re-pressurising spike was trapped between his belly and the surface of the medberth. He felt the Decepticon kick his legs wide and rush forward to fill the space between them with his frame. The rock-hard spike pressing against his overstimulated valve made Drift whimper in pleasure/pain.

“ _My turn_.” Deadlock growled into his audial, low and feral.

The Decepticon’s swollen spike slid easily into Drift’s valve, the torrents of lubricant he’d produced during their struggle easing the initial thrust. His callipers were still fluttering in the aftermath of his overload, pressing over-sensitised nodes into the unyielding construction of Deadlock’s spike in delicious ways.

Remembering what he’d had done to his spike and valve when he no longer had to sell his frame for fuel Drift whimpered, accidentally clenching down on the spike filling him. The sheer _girth_ of the spike threatened so push Drift out of range, Deadlock struggling to push through the grasping callipers. When he was fully seated Deadlock laughed and began to thrust, slamming into Drift with all the force his frame was capable of. Sharp claws grabbed the swordsmech’s thighs for leverage, digging deep into the vulnerable gaps between armour sections.

Energon ran and Drift screamed, bright pain erupting from the fresh wounds to fan the inferno raging within him. A second overload was building, stoked by the unrelenting pace of Deadlock’s thick spike, the crash of their pelvic armour and the claws piercing deep into his protoform.

 _This_ was what he’d been craving. Rage and lust, pain and pleasure; all melding into overwhelming ecstasy that built with each thrust, filling him to the brim along with the spike stuffing his soaked and aching valve.

Deadlock withdrew his claws from Drift’s thighs and the white speedster grabbed the side of the medberth for leverage, wailing through the pain as he lifted his legs to hook his ankles together behind Deadlock’s waist.

The claws returned.

One set gripped the clamps that held the Greatsword against Drift’s back, using them to impale the Swordsmech firmly on the spike inside him. His backstruts protested violently as Deadlock pulled him up into a brutal arch and shoved the energon-covered claws of his free hand into Drift’s mouth.

“Suck, buymech.” Deadlock snarled, staring Drift down.

Whimpering, Drift obeyed.

The taste of freshly spilled energon combined with spike fluids sent Drift shrieking into his second overload. He seized and shook, cutting his glossa on the sharp edges of the claws filling his mouth.

As soon as the first spasm wracked Drift’s frame Deadlock dropped him callously back onto the berth and began hammering mercilessly into his overloading valve. Drift could feel those claws digging into his hip joints for leverage, his valve callipers bending beneath the force of Deadlock’s thrusts, the dull pain prolonging his overload.

When the final surges cleared Drift’s systems Deadlock was still going, grunting each time his spike slammed to the hilt in the dripping valve. A few more punishing thrusts and Deadlock curled his hands into the mechanisms of Drift’s hips, overloading with a roar. Instead of the normal reproductive fluids his spike spilled liquid fire that burned, burned all the way from Drift’s valve to his Spark.

Driven by the fire pouring through him Drift crashed screaming into his third overload, optics shorting out as he thrashed beneath Deadlock on the medberth.

There was a blip in time there, at the height of Drift’s overload. He came back to himself lying on his back, apparently clean and with his limbs arranged neatly instead of sprawled on his front in a mess of spilled energon and lubricant.

That was weird.

There was noise and the sense of other mechs in the room as well, which was _definitely_ weird.

Hadn’t the Medbay been deserted except for him and Deadlock?

His optics weren’t cooperating, refusing to come online. There wasn’t anything wrong with his audials at the moment, so Drift listened.

“So that’s normal then?” Ratchet was speaking.

“What, overload?” That was First Aid. “It’s a potential side-effect, yes.”

_What the slag?!_

Finally Drift’s optics cooperated and booted up, feeding static-fuzzed pictures into his cortex.

Ratchet and First Aid; outlined against the Medbay ceiling. They looked exhausted; there were streaks of oil and energon on their faceplates. First Aid was holding some absolutely _enormous_ jumper clips and Ratchet’s chevron was scratched.

_What the frag happened?_

“Good to see you, kid.” Ratchet said softly.

“Drift, glad to have you back.” First Aid’s visor blazed with his version of a smile. “You gave us one Pit of a fright there.”

Memory returned and Drifts audial flares burned with embarrassment. He wished he could just sink through the medberth and vanish. How much had they seen and heard? How many of his overloads had Ratchet just witnessed?

_Oh. Slag. Me._


End file.
